


Right Here, Like This

by luxover



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: I fucking love you,Sid had wanted to say.Flower, I’m in love with you.But then Tanger had crashed into them and the moment was gone, almost as if it were never there to begin with.Or: Five times Sid almost says what he thinks, and the one time he just goes for it.





	Right Here, Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Julija for the read-through, but also I 100% blame her for retweeting [this terrible picture,](http://luxover.tumblr.com/post/170819013232/mitchymouse-penguins-when-you-win-three-cups) forcing me to write this fic in the first place.

i.

Sid hasn’t spent more than thirty minutes in the T-Mobile Arena, but he hates it already. 

It’s a nice arena. Objectively, it’s nice. Sid’s just not really being very objective about it.

He wonders where Flower is. Sid’s stuck in the audience, waiting for the award show to start, but he’s been around the league long enough that he knows how these things go. Sid knows that Flower’s probably already backstage; what he doesn’t know is whether or not Flower’s already in his Golden Knights jersey, and whether or not he likes how it feels. 

If it were Sid, he’d wait until the last possible second to put it on.

Not for the first time, Sid wishes he didn’t have to wear a suit. The arena’s stifling, even with the air conditioning on full blast, and maybe that’s because so many people came out to watch the awards and the draft, but maybe it’s just because they’re in Las Vegas. Sid doesn’t know. He can’t fault all these people for coming out and being excited; he would be excited, too, if things were different. 

It’s just really hot, and Sid runs two fingers around his neck, between his shirt collar and his skin, accidentally elbowing Hags next to him in the process. 

“Sorry,” Sid says distractedly, and Hags just smiles at him like he’s doing Sid a favor.

The air feels heavy. It’s almost hard for Sid to breathe when the expansion draft makes its way around to announcing the pick from Pittsburgh. He wishes he weren’t wearing a tie. 

Sid knows what’s coming, same as _everyone_ knows what’s coming, but he also knows because Flower told him ages ago, when he first had the thought of leaving.

Knowing doesn’t really make it any easier.

“You talk to him today?” Hags asks, and Sid nods.

“Just over text,” he says, staring straight ahead towards the stage. He feels distracted even from that, and can’t seem to get his head on straight.

“He doing okay?” 

Sid shrugs. He almost feels bad, because he’s not exactly being great company, but he’s about to lose his best friend to a team on the other side of the country, and no matter how much Hags or anyone else thinks they understand, they don’t. Not even Tanger gets it, not really, although he comes closer than anyone.

“He’s doing fine,” Sid finally replies, but in truth, Flower had texted him at four-thirty in the morning, saying, _Tell me I didn’t make a huge fucking mistake by waiving._

 _You didn’t,_ Sid had sent back. _I would have said something if you did._

And that’s true. If it were a mistake, Sid would have said something on day one, back in early March when Flower first told him that he was thinking of waiving his No-Trade Clause, the two of them sitting in Flower’s living room and ignoring the stack of unused cardboard boxes already leaning up against the wall.

“It would be really… weird, not playing here,” Flower had told him. He was bouncing his foot on the coffee table, visibly anxious, and Sid doesn’t know how he knew, but in that moment, he _knew_ that Flower hadn’t mentioned the idea to anyone else yet.

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” Sid said. He was somehow both blindsided by the news and not surprised in the least.

“Dick,” Flower said. “You’re supposed to be encouraging.”

“Well, I don’t want to be,” he had replied honestly.

“Yeah, I know.” A beat of silence, and then Flower had asked, “You think I’m making a mistake if I waive?”

And Sid—how could Sid answer that? Because _of course_ Flower was making a mistake, leaving Pittsburgh, leaving _him._ But they weren’t like that, never had been and never would be, and it made sense. If Sid were the one getting benched when he still had the legs to play, he’d have been leaving, too. 

Still, Sid had hedged, “Depends on what you want.”

“I just want to fucking play, Sid.” He said it like, _You know that._

“Yeah,” Sid agreed, just to fill the space. Neither of them said anything for a long while after that, not until Sid told him, “You know, I’ve never played hockey without you before.”

It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it; Sid had been skating and playing since he was three years old, a lifetime before they ever met, but he had never played _NHL_ hockey without Flower before, and that was the point. He didn’t even know what that would look like, not really.

He didn’t even really know who he was, without Flower.

“You’re just nervous everyone will see how bad you really are when I’m blocking all your shots,” Flower had joked.

“Wouldn’t you be?” Sid joked back, letting go of everything else he wanted to say, and Flower had laughed. He tilted his head back and showed all of his teeth, and Sid made himself watch because soon Flower would be gone.

They went on to win the Cup, and nothing about it was bittersweet, because they had just _won._ Sid wasn’t thinking about the future. Sid was just thinking about how happy he was to be there on the ice with Flower, the two of them in their black and gold, smiling like it was their first time. 

_I fucking love you,_ Sid had wanted to say. _Flower, I’m in love with you._ But then Tanger had crashed into them and the moment was gone, almost as if it were never there to begin with. 

It had all only just happened; Sid hasn’t even had the time to process any of it. It was only ten days ago that they won the Stanley Cup together for the third time, and now here they are at the expansion draft, Sid in his seat and Flower onstage in a new jersey, a million miles away.

Vegas gives Flower a standing ovation, but Sid just sits, and sits, and sits. 

 

ii.

The summer drags on long, despite the Penguins having played well into the beginning of June, and by the time Sid returns to Pittsburgh, he’s more than ready to start the season.

“Me, too,” Flower admits over the phone. “Even though this might be a huge clusterfuck.”

“I dunno, can’t be that bad,” Sid says. “Haven’t you guys been practicing together since June?”

“We’re a _brand new franchise,_ Sid,” Flower stresses, and on the other side of the country, Sid smiles.

“I’m just saying, maybe all that summer practice actually puts you at an advantage.”

“Oh, you bastard,” Flower curses him, and Sid laughs louder than he has all off-season.

By the time he actually gets back on Pittsburgh ice, Sid’s itching to be there. Cole Harbour and Halifax are great for the summer, but it’s different with the guys, with Horny and Phil, with Geno and Tanger and Shearsy. Sid always misses it, and maybe that’s why he’s the kind of captain he is, or the kind of player he is. 

Sid’s just always happy to be there.

It’s not that he doesn’t miss Flower. It’s just that at first, Sid’s all caught up focusing on what he _has,_ rather than what he _doesn’t,_ and it doesn’t occur to him _to_ miss Flower. They still talk on the phone, when they can, and Flower’s been hurt before. Flower’s missed games before, and sat out as backup plenty of times before. Sid doesn’t need him on the ice every minute.

The biggest difference is just how Sid’s used to having Flower in the locker room. He’s used to having to check for a cup of water before pulling his helmet down from the shelf, and having to open his gear bag on-edge, just in case Flower’s hiding inside. He’s used to having Flower run the starting roll-call, and having him chirp the practice shootout loser, and having him commentate on all the locker room antics from over the years, from Army and Whits’ Ass Off to Hags and Horny’s Speed Stick-Taping Competitions. 

But most importantly, Sid’s used to sitting next to Flower every single road trip. It had become so commonplace that Sid forgot that had to change, too.

“The end of an era,” Tanger says from behind him, shaking Sid out of his thoughts. He’s standing in the middle of the aisle on the plane, completely blocking everyone else from boarding.

“Yeah, guess so,” Sid says, dropping down into his aisle seat and digging through his bag for his PSP.

“Hey, smile,” Tanger says, and by the time Sid looks up, Tanger’s already taken the picture on his phone.

“Oh, come on,” Sid says, but Tanger just shrugs and slides into the row of seats across from him. Nobody takes the window seat by Sid, and it makes Sid wonder if he’s that obvious, or if they pity him, or what.

It’s only when they’re up in the air, Sid’s phone connected to the wireless, that he gets the message from Flower: it’s the same picture of Sid and the empty window seat that Tanger just took an hour prior, followed by a short message: _Lucky bastard. I got stuck with Nealer._

 _It’s just a bonus that you play goalie,_ Sid writes back. _Vegas needed a babysitter._

 _Plenty of that happening, too,_ Flower sends. _Nealer’s sleeping with me while they paint his place._

And Sid knows what Flower means, even though it reads wrong. He knows that Nealer’s just crashing, and so he doesn’t get jealous, not exactly, but it does put a weird weight on his chest that he can’t explain. Or, one that he _can_ explain, but just doesn’t want to. 

He doesn’t like thinking about it.

Instead, Sid thinks about responding, but he doesn’t really want to do that, either. There’s not really a way to tell his best friend, _I drove by your old house and saw that it sold, and I hate that almost as much as I hate you being so far away._

So Sid doesn’t respond, and instead sends back a picture of their usual flight snacks, peanut M&M’s and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, sitting out on his tray table.

Flower sends back three texts in rapid succession: 

_You’re eating both?_  
_Getting fat without me._  
_Save me some m &ms._

__

__

Sid huffs out a laugh, and then on impulse goes on Amazon to overnight Flower three hundred dollars’ worth of peanut M&M’s. He forgets about it afterwards, between Hags chirping him about CoD and the team getting decimated by Chicago the next night, but Flower texts him later.

There’s no caption, just the one photo of Flower in his bathtub, covered from the neck down by unopened M&M’s packets. Nealer’s finger is blurred in the top left corner of the picture, and Flower’s smiling as wide as Sid’s ever seen in person, exactly how Sid had imagined he’d smile if Sid had somehow found a way to keep him in Pittsburgh.

Sid debates it, but then saves the picture anyway.

 

iii. 

Flower comes back into the Pens locker room when Vegas is in town, despite the fact that he no longer belongs there. Sid doesn’t care. Sid thinks Flower will belong there for as long as Flower wants to.

“Well, look who it is,” Tanger chirps when he sees Flower, and something in Sid’s chest freezes, even though Flower had texted that he was on his way over.

Sid hasn’t seen him in a long time, not really. They tried to see each other in Vegas, but it hadn’t really panned out, and Sid had to settle for a quick hug in the hallway, the two of them not yet in their gear, a dozen other people around them. It’s alright, Sid gets it. Flower has a new team, and playing the Pens after so many years of playing _for_ the Pens… Sid’s not one to get offended by superstition. Even Murr just got a stick-tap at center ice.

But now, with Flower here back in his old space, in _Sid’s_ space… Sid so badly wants him to still fit, but he might not anymore. So many things could have changed, between them and around them. Flower might no longer understand Sid’s quirks, or Sid might look at Flower and just see another guy he used to play with. Maybe they were just good friends because they were both _there._

Sid doesn’t think he could stand it, if suddenly he and Flower meant something different to each other.

“Hey, fuckface,” Flower says, hugging Tanger and clapping him on the back. Sid hangs off to the side awkwardly, his hands in his pockets, but when Flower looks over Tanger’s shoulder and smiles at him, it makes Sid relax even though it doesn’t slow the racing in his chest.

“Hey, Flower,” Sid says, and he watches as Flower shoves Tanger out of the way to get to him and pull him close.

“Hey, you,” Flower says into his shoulder, squeezing Sid tight. Sid lets himself curl his fingers into the back of Flower’s sweatshirt, just for a second. “Missed you.”

“When did you have time to?” Sid jokes, and while he feels so relieved that Flower was the one to say it first, he still can’t help but feel awkward from all the other things he’s feeling and not saying.

“Between all my winning,” Flower tells him, pulling back, and Sid watches his face the entire way, his smile starting huge and getting farther and farther, smaller and smaller, until he’s a few feet away and leaning against the wall.

“What the hell,” Tanger says, “I’m _fuckface,_ but he gets a nice hello?”

“I’ve always liked Sid more than you,” Flower says, and it’s the kind of thing that makes Sid laugh and blush, even though it’s a joke. “This isn’t new.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Tanger says, and Flower’s tongue sticks out from between his teeth as he smiles. “Why’d you even bother coming back?”

That makes Flower laugh, and Sid too, and when Tanger goes to grab Geno from the equipment room, Flower looks at Sid, still smiling. 

Sid no longer remembers how to act casual around him.

“For real, how you been?” Flower asks.

Sid shrugs and deflects. “Good. Working hard and trying to stay focused. But shouldn’t I be asking you that? How’s Las Vegas?”

Flower mimics him and shrugs, too. He takes a few steps closer to Sid, and then leans against the wall again.

“I hate that you’re doing this. It’s just me,” he says, and Sid knows what he means because he hates it, too. He’s giving Flower the Media Face, as if Flower’s ever been someone he had to hide from, as if Flower’s ever been someone he couldn’t trust. It’s just—it’s just weird, having Flower back but not having him back at the same time. 

It shouldn’t be weird. Flower’s helped him through bad losses and even worse concussions, and a broken fucking jaw. Flower’s already seen Sid at his worst; what’s different teams compared to that?

“Sorry,” Sid says, letting out a long breath and scrubbing one open palm over his face. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Are things that bad?”

“No,” Sid says honestly, looking at Flower’s arms, crossed casually right over the new Las Vegas Golden Knights logo on his chest, and then he looks at Flower’s face, the same face Sid has known for years, and that has grown and aged but not changed in the slightest, not in all the time Sid has known him. Sid knows that face. Sid _loves_ that face. “No, I just—it’s throwing me off. Seeing you again.” 

“Good,” Flower says. “That’s my game tactic.”

It startles a laugh out of Sid, one of his loud and embarrassing laughs, and Flower smiles like he’s proud of himself for having caused it. That alone makes Sid want to be honest.

“I miss you.”

“Well, you fucking shouldn’t have to,” Flower says lightly. “Just because I’m the face of a rival franchise means we can’t FaceTime anymore?”

Sid scrunches up his face awkwardly, and Flower keeps smiling at him.

“I mean,” Flower continues loudly, “I knew you were the weird one of us going in, but—”

“Oh, come on!” Sid argues. “Goalies are always the weirdest. And _you’re_ the goalie.” 

An arm gets slung around Sid’s shoulder from behind, and Sid knows just from the height and the weight of it that it’s Geno, tossing himself casually into the mix.

“Who’s goalie?” Geno asks. “Flower’s not goalie. Goalie supposed to stop puck, but Flower…” Geno trails off, and makes a wishy-washy gesture with his hand.

“Ah, you Russian asshole!” Flower says, and then he and Geno are doing some crazy handshake, and Sid just lets himself watch.

Flower looks really good; Sid doesn’t exactly mind getting to look.

After the game, they only have about five minutes to say goodbye, and Tanger eats up a good two of them before leaving them alone. When he does, Sid smiles a little at Flower, and Flower smiles a little right back. Sid wonders if it’ll ever get easier, saying goodbye to him.

“Well, good game,” Sid says when it becomes apparent that Flower isn’t going to speak first.

“Shut up,” Flower tells him.

“Okay,” Sid agrees, and then Flower reaches out to pull Sid in, his arms tight around Sid’s shoulders despite the fact that he already showered, and Sid’s only gotten so far as to take his pads off before doing media.

Sid hugs Flower back, and breathes in deep. Flower doesn’t smell like anything, just like generic locker room soap, but he _feels_ familiar, bony in all the same places, soft in others. Sid wants to make up for being an asshole earlier, wants to say things like, _It was good seeing you,_ and, _Don’t get a big head over the fans still loving you,_ but he’s worried that when he opens his mouth, what’ll actually come out is _I knew it would be hard playing against you but it’s still better than playing without you,_ and Sid can’t say that. 

“Stop acting like I’m getting rid of you just because I moved,” Flower says, his voice muffled. “You’re stuck with me.”

Sid doesn’t say anything.

 

iv. 

The Pens get knocked out unexpectedly in the second round, but Flower— _Sid’s_ Flower, the same Flower that everyone said was on the decline—has a career year and an insane run in the playoffs, and takes Vegas all the way to the Finals. 

Sid still feels his own loss like a suckerpunch to the chest, but fuck, he’s so proud of Flower. He’d tell Flower that, too, but they haven’t talked in weeks, not since the regular season ended, and they won’t talk for a few weeks more, not until the Cup is won or lost, one way or the other. 

It sucks, but that’s hockey, or at least the way Sid does it. 

Geno’s already gone, back to Russia at the first available opportunity, and so Sid watches the Cup games alone with Tanger, locked away in Tanger’s game room. They do it up big in Flower’s honor, ordering in food for each game and ruining whatever’s left of their meal plan by eating Catherine’s brownies. 

“Quit trying to guilt me,” Tanger says during the anthem of Game 1. “It won’t work.”

“I’m not trying to guilt you. I’m eating them, too.”

“Yeah, well, not in the quantities I am,” Tanger points out. “I can feel your judgment from here.”

“And yet you continue to ignore it,” Sid deadpans. “I’ll try harder next time.”

It’s nice though, Sid thinks, watching together. Maybe because they both feel a little personally invested, maybe because he likes to hear Tanger’s commentary. Tanger says what he thinks better than anyone on tv, anyway, saying things like, “He looks solid,” and “Hell of a save,” and “Tampa’s best player tonight was the fucking ref, shit.”

Sid agrees with all of it, except for one time during Game 5 when Tanger says, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s even saying it, almost like he’s stunned, “I think he really might do it,” and Sid—

Sid knows that’s it. Jinxed.

He hates it, because Flower winning would’ve been the next best thing to Sid winning himself, but the damage is done; not everyone in this sport is superstitious, but there are those who are, and none more so than Sid. 

The puck luck sways the other way, and Vegas loses in six. 

“ _Tabarnak,_ ” Tanger cusses, and immediately grabs the empty bottles to take back into the kitchen in an attempt to get away from the tv.

Sid makes himself watch the handshake line, and refuses to look away each time the camera focuses on Flower. It’s not quite _in sickness and in health,_ but it’s something more, in its own way: _in winning and in losing._

Despite the fact that dozens of people have probably already texted Flower, and although he knows there’s really nothing he could say that Flower would want to hear, Sid still texts him, _I’m sorry._

He doesn’t hear back right away, because of course Flower is still on the ice when Sid sends it, but when Sid’s in bed, just on the edge of sleep, his phone rings with a video call from Flower.

Sid’s fingers fumble to turn on the bedside lamp and then to actually answer the call, and then there he is: Flower, with a suit on and a toque pulled down low over his eyes, slouched in the driver’s seat of his car. His white headphones stand out in stark contrast to the dark color of his jacket and the car seats and the nighttime air. He looks orange from the parking lot street lights.

“Hi,” Sid says. 

Flower doesn’t say anything, just scrunches up one side of his face like he’s trying to smile, or maybe just trying not to cry. Sid hates that look, but would still rather be seeing it in person than over the phone.

He thinks he should say something, but he doesn’t know what. _Puck luck,_ maybe, or something equally as hollow. That’s what Flower called him for, only Sid’s got nothing. There’s nothing anyone could say to Sid after a big loss, and Flower’s no different. He’s not going to want to hear anything, especially now that the season’s over. What’s the point in picking it apart? It’s done.

“I’m sorry,” Sid offers again anyway. “You played really well.”

“Sid,” Flower scoffs.

“You took them all the way to the finals in the first season _ever._ That’s not nothing, Flower.”

“Well, it’s not a Cup, either.”

“Maybe not,” Sid says. “Gotta be worth at least a retirement statue, though.”

“Need to keep up with you somehow,” Flower agrees, the words all there but the tone all wrong. A few more minutes pass of them just breathing together, sitting there in silence, before Flower adds, “Fuck, we were so close.”

“You’ll get there again,” Sid tells him, and it’s not an empty platitude. It’s amazing how it’s not, how some guys in the league never even make it once, while Flower’s made it five times, and won it three. He thinks of both of them playing in the Finals together again, about how good it would be for both of them to make it that far. He says, “Next year. Both of us.”

“God, I hope not,” Flower responds, but doesn’t follow it up with anything.

“I guess not, yeah,” Sid agrees slowly. They’re on different teams now, and they’re always going to be on different teams. There’s no more winning together for them.

“Idiot.”

Flower says it so fondly that he almost sounds like he normally does, except for how when Sid studies his face, all he can see are the dark circles beneath Flower’s eyes and the way the corners of his mouth are downturned. The playoffs are always hard. Sid wants to run his palm over the stubble on Flower’s jaw.

Flower pinches the bridge of his nose, and then rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He looks at Sid again, and Sid’s still looking right back. Whatever Flower asks for, Sid will give it to him.

“Sorry for calling so late,” Flower finally says.

“It’s not late,” Sid says, but what he means and what he won’t say is, _It’s not late if you’re the one calling._

“I just wanted to see you, I guess.”

And Sid always wants to see Flower, so instead he says, “I’m here.”

“Yeah, but I’m _here,_ ” Flower reminds him, letting out an audible breath. He shifts to rest his head on the steering wheel, and then all Sid can see is the back of his hat and part of his suit jacket. It’s muffled, but Sid still hears it when he says, “I’m fucking all the way over _here._ ”

And that’s an easy fix, for Sid. He asks, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” Flower tells him. “Packing. Exit interviews eventually.”

“Okay,” Sid says. “Can I come over?”

Flower sits up, and when he does, one of his earbuds pulls loose. He presses it back into place with his fingertips and asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Flower says, and he doesn’t smile, but he looks less likely to fly apart, and there’s that.

Sid’s well-versed in taking what he can get.

 

v.

Flower’s apartment looks lived in, although it clearly hasn’t been professionally decorated. Sid likes that better, because that means he sees Flower in every corner of the apartment, from the _Welcome To The Jungle_ doormat outside to the pictures stuck haphazardly to the fridge with magnets. Even the living room feels like Flower, its dark brown couch and neutral chevron rug making Sid feel easy. He bets Flower loves that room most. 

“I don’t get a hug, and already you’re looking for the fucking tv?” Flower asks as Sid pokes around, and he looks just like he did on video chat, only more. He’s in sweats and a plain white t-shirt that hangs loosely off his shoulders, and he look so fucking tired and thin. 

“I hugged you,” Sid argues, although he thinks they both know he’s just doing it for the sake of normalcy. 

“Well, I just lost the Stanley Cup,” Flower points out, and so Sid rolls his eyes and reaches out to pull Flower in tight again. Flower lets himself be manhandled and hugs Sid back, right there by the sectional.

“Thank you,” Flower says into Sid’s shoulder. “For coming all the way out.”

Sid just asks him, “Where else would I be?” but Flower doesn’t respond, and Sid wasn’t really looking for an answer, anyway.

Eventually, Flower pats Sid twice on the back, and Sid takes that as his cue to pull away. He looks at Flower’s face as he does, and all the video chats in the world couldn’t make up for seeing it in person, seeing the wrinkles and the facial hair, the red eyes and hollow cheeks and dark circles. 

Sid hates the way he looks, but loves looking at him anyway.

“Well,” Flower says, rubbing his jaw as if he were suddenly embarrassed. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “Can we order in, though?”

And that must be the right thing to say, because then Flower’s smiling, just a little, and Sid’s smiling back, just a little more.

That’s how they spend most of the week: in Flower’s apartment, ordering in, Flower oscillating between smiling and brooding, Sid just being there. They watch a lot of movies, and Sid reads a good chunk of his book. It’s nice, all things considered; relaxing. 

“Not boring you?” Flower asks. They’re both lying on the living room sectional, their heads at opposite corners so they can look at each other.

“No,” Sid answers honestly, putting his book down on his chest to mark his place. “I think… I don’t know. I mean, I needed this, too.”

“Ah, fuck,” Flower says. “I’m an asshole. I didn’t even ask how you were.”

Sid smiles and almost laughs. He says, “I’m okay now. The second round was a long time ago.”

“Still.”

“Yeah, still,” Sid agrees. “But I’m okay.” And it’s true. Being there with Flower, Sid feels like he can breathe again. It’s strange, considering he hadn’t even realized that was a problem he was having to begin with. 

“Alright,” Flower says, tossing an arm over his eyes. “Well, let me mourn the loss one more day and then I’ll actually be fun.”

“I’m having fun,” Sid insists, because he _is._ Of course he is, he’s with Flower. But at the same time, he can’t help but be worried. It’s only been four days of this, which honestly doesn’t even come close to how long Sid can mope after a failed season, but it’s also the biggest loss Flower’s had in years.

Sometimes, Flower doesn’t handle that well.

Back after the lockout, after that great season and that shitshow of a Conference Final, Flower had been a mess. It was ugly for all of them—Sid and Geno and even Iginla held to a whopping zero points versus Boston—but no one took the loss harder than Flower. Flower played just as poorly as everyone else, but still lost his starting spot to Vokey. Sid remembers how Flower’s hands shook even when the season was over, how he had confided in Sid that he wasn’t sleeping, and was worried that maybe he was done. 

_I read this article,_ Flower had said. _Marc-Andre Fleury, Playoff Disaster. Worst Goalie in the Postseason._

 _Well, fuck whoever wrote that,_ Sid had said honestly. He’d never been so mad, not even when they said the same stuff about him. _They probably never won a Stanley Cup._

Flower had just shrugged at the time, but he started talking to a sports psychologist that summer, a woman named Mary with more degrees than either of them could count. Sid helped Flower find her, but ultimately she was Flower’s decision, and Flower’s had her practically on speed dial since then. Since 2013.

“Have you called Mary?” Sid asks. 

Flower shakes his head, more a flop of his head from side to side than anything else, and the gesture knocks his arm away from over his eyes. He says, “Not yet. I don’t want to.”

“Well, I think you should at least think about it,” Sid says. “She still helps, right?”

“I’m going to call her. I just meant that I didn’t want to while you were here,” Flower explains.

And that’s—

Fine. That’s fine. It’s really not any of Sid’s business. It wasn’t his business back in Pittsburgh, when Flower would put Mary on speaker phone and pace the length of Sid’s living room, and it’s not any of his business now, especially not with the two of them playing on separate teams. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, the fact that Flower’s closed off to Sid now.

“Want some privacy?” he offers lightly. He refuses to make Flower feel bad about it either way.

Flower shifts onto his side, so that he’s looking right at Sid. He folds one arm under his head, ignoring the piece of hair in his eyes, and then breathes out a quiet laugh.

“At least you’re good at hockey,” Flower says. And then, as if he can’t quite find the words to admit it, he says, “I just meant that talking with her isn’t… And I never get to see enough of you anymore. So I don’t want that to…”

“Right,” Sid says, because it’s either that or _I don’t think there’s such a thing as seeing enough of you._

“Ta yeule,” Flower tells him, slipping back into French. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Sid agrees. “You should call her anyway, if you think you need to.” 

“Okay,” Flower says, and then he sits up halfway, pulling the pillow out from underneath his head to throw it at Sid.

Sid yelps and knocks it aside. “What the hell was that for?”

“Nothing,” Flower says. He looks more himself than he has in days. “You’re a really good friend, Sid.”

And maybe that’s not what Sid wants to be, not to Flower, but he’ll take what he can get. He’ll take Flower in any way he can get him, because Flower is Flower, and Sid loves him. Sid’s never liked anyone more. 

“Better than you,” Sid agrees.

“So humble.”

“Flower,” Sid says. He makes sure Flower’s looking at him when he continues, “You’re my best friend.”

“Of course,” Flower says. “I’ve still got it.”

 

i.

After Vegas, Sid heads to Cole Harbour to see his parents and his sister, and when that becomes too much, he heads home to Halifax to get a jump on his summer training. Maybe it’s how the last season ended, or maybe he’s just bored, but he feels like he’s got all this pent-up energy that he has to deal with, and the only way he knows how to deal with it is by working out.

Nate comes with him to the gym, and they fall back into their easy pattern of chirping and laughing, and talking about how miserable the training will get when Andy finally shows up to coach them through it. 

During a rest between sets, Nate points out, “You know, we were supposed to still have another week off.”

“I’m not forcing you to be here,” Sid reminds him, and Nate just scoffs.

“You’re my biggest rival,” he says. “I’m not gonna let you get jacked without me.”

“Biggest rival? I thought I was your favorite player.”

“Yeah,” Nate agrees easily. “You _were._ ”

Sid laughs. That’s how it goes with them. It’s easy, and Sid falls back into rhythm with him without even thinking about it. They run a few miles, and Sid complains; they do box jumps and burpees, and Nate complains. They do bag skates and neither of them complains because they’re both too out of breath.

It’s nice because it’s always the same.

Or at least, it’s the same until they do their hill work at Citadel Hill. Andy’s there by then—he has to be, because neither Sid nor Nate would willingly choose hill work on their own—and they’re finishing up alternating between bounds, sprints, and shuffles, with fifteen seconds of rest in between reps, and a minute between sets. 

“It doesn’t get any easier,” Nate complains, panting from exhaustion as the two of them lie in the grass. “Why doesn’t it get any easier?”

“Seemed plenty easy when I beat you,” Sid chirps, equally out of breath, and since his eyes are closed to the sun, he doesn’t see it coming when Nate kicks out in his general direction.

“Yeah, and what about the other nine times?” Nate asks, and Sid refuses to give him the satisfaction of a laugh.

Andy laughs, though, and says, “Both of you are out of shape. You both lose.”

Andy knows what he’s doing. That’s why Sid pays him. He knows exactly what something off-handed like that does to Sid, how it fires up his competitive streak. Sid argues, “I play hockey; I don’t even see the point in hill sprints.”

“Well, being on a hill puts you in the same push position as skating,” a voice says, and when Sid cracks open an eye, he sees Flower standing there, silhouetted against the sun. “I’m a goalie and even _I_ know that.”

“Flower?” Sid asks. He has no idea how long Flower’s been there, but it couldn’t have been longer than a minute or two. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, so you can invite yourself over to Las Vegas, but I’m not allowed in all of Nova Scotia?” Flower jokes, and when Sid’s eyes get a little more used to the sun, he can see just how much better Flower looks since last time.

His face is clean-shaven, just the little patch of hair left below his bottom lip, and he’s smiling easily. He’s wearing the sunglasses that Sid dug out from between couch cushions a few weeks ago, and a t-shirt that Sid remembers seeing even back in Pittsburgh. He’s tan. He looks good.

“No, I meant, how’d you even know I was here?” Sid corrects. 

“I texted Andy,” Flower says, but Nate speaks out over top of him.

“We’ve been training here for years, Sid,” Nate points out. “There are _literal_ articles about us training here.”

“Shut up,” Sid says. “That’s not what I—oh my god.”

It gets Flower laughing, though, and that alone makes it alright with Sid. He watches as Andy extends a hand down and pulls Nate up by his forearm, and then Andy makes an excuse for the two of them to leave.

Nate looks at Sid like he’s just seeing him for the first time, and Sid almost misses it, too busy staring at Flower.

“Want to come back to the lake for lunch?” Sid asks. 

“Obviously,” Flower says easily. “I didn’t come all this way just to see Citadel Hill.”

“It is a nice hill, though,” Sid says, and Flower laughs again.

“Yeah, I’ll give you that.”

So Sid takes him home, back to Enfield a half-hour away, and makes them both turkey sandwiches as Flower stands barefoot on the other side of the breakfast bar. Flower’s been to the lake house before, but in the face of Flower being here now, Sid just can’t remember when that was.

“What, no PB&J?” Flower asks, and Sid rolls his eyes.

“As if you don’t already know that’s only for pre-game,” Sid says, and Flower laughs like he would at a joke.

The two of them grab their plates, and Sid grabs his half-empty protein shaker. Sid had imagined they’d go eat outside on the Adirondacks, and had left his hat on because of it, but Flower heads over to the kitchen table instead, and Sid follows him without a second thought.

Once he’s sitting, Flower looks down at his plate and goes to pick up his sandwich, but then pulls his hands back and looks up at Sid. He asks suddenly, “You’re not busy or anything today, are you?”

“No,” Sid says. The only thing he’d be doing other than training is teaching at his hockey school, but that’s out in Cole Harbour and closed this year for rink renovations, anyway. “But even if I were, you can always stay here.”

“Oh,” Flower says like that had just occurred to him to worry about. “Yeah, I know.”

“Alright,” Sid says. He takes a bite of his sandwich, and Flower does the same.

“So I’ve thought about it,” Flower announces, mouth half full. “And I really like Vegas.”

Sid turns his protein shaker upside down once to mix it up, and then pops the cap. He says, “Well, I’d hope so. You’re gonna be there a long time.”

“Yeah,” Flower agrees. He looks over Sid’s shoulder, out the sliding glass doors to the backyard, and then takes another bite of his sandwich. His brow is furrowed the entire time, like he’s thinking, and so Sid readjusts the hat on his head, and just leaves Flower to it.

It’s different now, with Flower sitting at his kitchen table, but when Flower was first drafted by the Golden Knights, Sid was really worried that they weren’t going to stay the kind of friends that they were. Sid can be difficult, and he knows that. He knows that sometimes it’s easier to deal with him when he’s right there, because when he’s not, the media and the superstitions and all the rituals stop feeling like part of a normal routine. Their absence becomes a reminder of how annoying it all is. And with Flower on the other side of the country, he had thought…

A part of him really did think that Flower would realize he didn’t miss Sid at all.

“I’m glad I’m not a Penguin anymore,” Flower finally says, and Sid doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh.”

“No, I’m not—argh,” Flower says, putting down his sandwich and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m fucking this up.”

“Um, maybe?” Sid says. “I just thought… You know.”

But maybe Flower doesn’t know.

“No, I do,” Flower insists. “I do know. You’re my best friend. I thought we were going to play together until we retired.”

“That’s what I wanted,” Sid admits, instead of admitting, _I’m in love you._

“I wanted that, too,” Flower stresses. “But I’d already waited for years, and if we were going to keep playing together for even longer, I wasn’t going to ruin it by saying—”

“I’m in love with you,” Sid tells him. It just slips out, and the craziest thing about it is that once it’s out there, Sid’s not even worried about it. Flower’s his best friend. Either Flower feels the same, or he doesn’t. Flower didn’t come all the way out to Halifax for just anybody; he came out to Halifax for _Sid._ He’s sitting at _Sid’s_ kitchen table, in _Sid’s_ house, in _Sid’s_ city, just because he had wanted to see _Sid._

“Yeah,” Flower says. “That.”

Sid feels the smile slide across his face, spreading quick like wildfire, all the air in his chest exploding and expanding, until Sid feels like he’ll be carried away by it.

“Flower, I’m in love with you,” Sid says again, because he can and because Flower needs him to. Sid would do a lot more for Flower, and for a lot less in return, but he wouldn’t trade a single second of this for anything. He wants to tell Flower that, but somehow every word he’s ever known has gotten lost in this exact moment.

“Oh,” Flower says, and then before Sid can process it, Flower’s leaning across the table and pressing his lips firmly against Sid’s, short but sweet. He pulls back before Sid can even react.

Sid looks at him, dazed. Flower smiles down at his plate just a little, and Sid—

Sid stands up halfway out of his seat to cup Flower’s jaw with one hand, his heart racing in the vast expanse of his chest, and it’s only when Flower’s looking up at him that he kisses Flower back. Flower’s lips are dry, but Sid’s aren’t, and Sid kisses him until Flower’s aren’t, either.

He thinks fleetingly about how they could have been doing this for years, and then is suddenly and intensely glad that they haven’t been.

Right here, like this. Sid likes this.


End file.
